


String Theory

by Ezlebe



Category: Franklin & Bash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Switching, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared doesn’t realize it until later, but the first clue that something’s very, very wrong is the first thing that he sees as his eyes open is Stanton’s Buddha on the coffee table. The second, more obvious, is he's lying on the office couch and doesn’t know how he got there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	String Theory

Jared doesn’t realize it until later, but the first clue that something’s very, very wrong, is that the first thing he sees as he opens his eyes is Stanton’s Buddha on the coffee table. The second, more obvious, is he's lying on the office couch and doesn’t know how he got there.  
  
He rubs his face, slowly sitting up as he hears Peter voices filter in from the hall, and adds the fact that he’s not lying on the couch in _their_ office to his growing list of concerns. He groans, head spinning like he has a hangover, maybe the worst to date despite the fact he doesn't even remember drinking last night.  
  
Actually, the last thing he remembers is telling Peter that he’ll probably die if they don’t get Thai food for _lunch_.  
  
Standing is difficult, and he has to take a few deep breaths before he feels steady enough to take a step, nearly falling into Infeld’s desk as he passes, but managing to get to the door quickly, head clearing up sooner than he expected.  
  
The image that greets him as he opens the door is confusing to say the least, as someone has decided to rearrange the entire office and, more importantly, Peter has made the regretful decision to cut and dye his hair.  
  
“Oh god,” Jared groans, drawing the attention of both Infeld and Peter. “What have you done to your hair?”  
  
“Mr. Franklin?” Peter responds after a suspiciously long moment, eyes widening at the sight of him. “How are you feeling.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Jared blinks slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Did you just call me Mr. Franklin?”  
  
“I am really sorry about this. I had no idea what would happen,” Peter deflects quickly, herding Jared back into Infeld’s office. “I’ll try to have Stanton explain if you’re willing to listen.”  
  
There’s something more off about this than Peter’s haircut, Jared soon realizes, as he looks over Peter’s shoulder to see that their office is _completely gone_ , or at least as if they’d never taken out the median wall. “I think I’m still drunk,” he says slowly, as he’s pushed towards the couch.  “Or hallucinating; I’m not sure.”  
  
“I’ll get you some water,” Peter says, holding up a hand to stop him from moving. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
“Wait, Peter,” Jared says, trying to stop him. “What’s going on? Why-why are-where’s our office?”  
  
“Just one second, really sorry,” Peter repeats, backing out of the room.  
  
Jared feels his chest get tight as he watches Peter leave, and hopes this is just some sort of really weird joke. He reluctantly starts to notice other differences: curtains the wrong shade of taupe, no bonsai on Infeld’s desk, the fact that the skyline is _missing a building or two_.  
  
Peter returns with a plastic cup and Infeld in tow, setting the water down in front of Jared and backing up a step, hands at his side like he’s worried about Jared reacting badly to a simple gesture.  
  
“Okay,” Jared starts with as steady a tone he can muster, ignoring the way Peter furrows his brow. “If this is a joke, I need you to stop right now. I admire the planning that this must have taken, but- it’s not funny when I don’t even know what I did to deserve it.” The last bit comes out in a quiet rush, and he glances at Infeld for a moment, wondering why Peter’s dragged their boss into something that could probably be considered personal.  
  
“You haven’t done anything,” Peter says after a tense moment. “I’m not sure really how to explain-”  
  
“I believe I can offer explanation,” Stanton interrupts with a worryingly bright smile. “Especially, since it is quickly becoming clear that you’re not from around here.”  
  
Jared stares for a moment, looking between Peter and Stanton, before settling on the window to stare at where Wells Fargo was yesterday.  He takes a breath and looks back, straight at Peter. “It’s a dream, isn’t it? This has Inception written all over it.”  
  
Peter holds his stare for a moment before looking in confusion to Stanton.  
  
“In short, Mr. Franklin-”  
  
“Okay, first off, stop calling me Mr. Franklin,” Jared interrupts, scowling. “It’s starting to piss me off.”  
  
“Apologies,” Stanton agrees obligingly. He leans against the edge of the desk and fixes Jared with a piercing stare. “In short, I had been trying to free something from Mr. Bash’s mind, and it would seem that this something was you.”  
  
Jared looks down at the water and pointedly puts it on the table, suddenly wary of any part of this situation. He glances at Peter, searching for a sign, hoping that he’ll do that thing where he gives up on a joke with a teasing smirk, asking if Jared really believed him, but all he does is stare back with an anxious expression.  
  
“Me?” Jared finally responds.  
  
“Yes,” Stanton agrees immediately, apparently relieved that Jared managed to say anything at all. “It would appear that Peter here has been merely observing a thin spot between dimensions; it was probably this other incarnation that subconsciously affected him rather than any sort of other... influence that we were worried about.”  
  
“I’m in another dimension,” Jared repeats in disbelief. “Is that seriously what you’re going to use as an explanation.”  
  
“Well, _universe_ , really,” Stanton amends thoughtfully.  
  
“It’s actually sort of good news,” Peter says in baffling relief. “The Jared Franklin that I know is kind of an asshole, and probably would have sued me.”  
  
“This is crazy,” Jared admonishes as he stands up, most of the hangover-like feeling from before having mercifully dissipated. “I cannot believe you thought you could get away with this.” He points at Peter, “And don’t call me an asshole.”  
  
He sidesteps Peter’s aborted attempt to stop him and makes way towards his office, determined to see through prank. However, when he pulls open the door, it’s the opposite he finds: a confused woman staring up at him from a lived in office, pictures on the wall that he’s never seen, and a bowl of candy on a desk that he’s definitely never sat at.  
  
“Did the DA need to see me?” The woman asks slowly, looking wary.  
  
Jared closes his mouth with a quiet click of teeth, shaking his head slowly and backing up. He turns just in time to see Peter going into the other office, and begins to reluctantly believe when he notices a scar that doesn’t exist just under the man’s hairline. He debates asking as Peter begins to dig through a disturbingly neat portfolio and hands him a file, Infeld/Daniel’s badge proudly displayed along the front  
  
Jared blinks down at it before looking back up, clutching the file so hard it crumples slightly. “Where did you get that scar?”  
  
“What?” Peter asks, looking back in confusion, as if he has any right when Jared’s world is missing entire buildings.  
  
“On the back of your neck,” Jared elaborates, trying not to sound as upset as he feels. “There’s a scar.”  
  
“Oh, uh- I fell out of a tree when I was thirteen,” Peter answers, along with a rueful shrug, “Nearly killed myself.”  
  
Jared looks for any sort of sign that it’s a lie, the too-quick blink, the slightly sidelong look, but finds nothing, and slowly starts to freak the fuck out. He pushes past this– this guy, and sits in a guest chair, running a hand through his hair a couple of times before holding on, tight enough to feel the pain and to know that this is actually real, that he’s stuck in what to all appearances is the actual fucking looking glass.  
  
“Are you okay?” The man who would be Peter Bash asks from his left. “The file that I gave you should have enough proof, but I’m going to need it back.”  
  
Jared closes his eyes and tightens the hold on his hair, taking a few deep breaths as he slowly comes to the conclusion that he’s probably gone insane. “What do you mean proof,” he asks after a few futile minutes wishing he’d wake up.  
  
“It’s the minutes of the last case I had with you,” not-Peter answers. “Well, against.”  
  
Jared looks up at him a moment before opening the file he still has clutched in his hand, finger reluctant to uncurl as it falls open, and he swallows down confusion at the sight of his own name opposite Peter’s in what appears to be the assault case with Sal.  
  
He flips up a few papers, looking for- ah, apparently he won. He’s definitely going to remember that for later, though it- nope they didn’t bring in Kiki, bummer. “So the reason that woman nextdoor-”  
  
“Carly,” Peter corrects absentmindedly.  
  
“Carly,” Jared repeats sarcastically, flipping through the paper. “Asked me if the DA needed to see her, is because _I’m_ an ADA.”  
  
“Yep,” Peter responds awkwardly, sitting at the desk. “I actually thought you’d- he’d been the one that got...” He makes an odd motion with his hands, grimacing, “To Stanton’s office.”  
  
Jared closes the file with a sudden, angry snap. “So you guys do that often?”  
  
Peter blinks, bland expression turning into more of a frown, “Do what?”  
  
“Magic shit; Star Trek-esque mind-fuckery; play Wizard of Oz during business hours,” Jared responds angrily, standing up. “Why the fuck did this even happen? Now I’m stuck here without my house or my friends or-or...” He cuts himself off before he can say ‘Peter’, realizing it would probably make this entire experience that much more awkward. “Or my fucking life,” he finishes weakly.  
  
“No, of course not,” Peter answers quickly, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I thought he was going to try and hypnotize me or something, the fact actual magic happened surprised me too.”  
  
“You don’t seem very surprised,” Jared responds flatly.  
  
“Well, you were passed out for almost an hour, so I had some time for it to sink in.” Peter looks down at the file before looking back. “I don’t know if you know him, in your...world, but is he a wizard there, too?”  
  
Jared slumps back into the chair with a pained expression, “I have no fucking clue.” He stares at the carpet for the next few minutes, _still_ faintly hoping this is a dream and that he’ll wake up at home, Peter yelling at him for making them late. He starts to look around when it doesn’t happen, noticing that the office still has the wolf painting, although it’s on a different wall, and that it’s the only personal touch in the office aside from a pencil holder that looks like a slinky.  
  
He begins to wonder what he’s supposed to call this- this guy, because the more he calls him ‘Peter’ the more he hates him, the more he notices how different this stranger is in comparison to Peter, the haircut, the bland tie, the way he actually sits up straight in his chair.  
  
The way he’s actually _working_ right now, seriously?    
  
Jared takes a deep breath, and then another, before deciding that he needs to pull himself together before he actually snaps, if he hasn’t already. “Do you have a nickname?” He asks sharply, lacing his fingers together and twiddling his thumbs.  
  
“Not really, no,” Peter answers, but his eyes go to the side a little before he looks back at Jared.  
  
“Okay, sure,” Jared humors for a moment. “I can tell you’re lying.”  
  
“I’m not,” Peter mutters, looking back to his work. “It’s not really a nickname, anyway; just call me Bash, or something.”  
  
Jared tilts his head, considering. “Okay, _Bash_ ,” he agrees, trying not to wrinkle his nose at how incomplete it sounds. “But you have to tell me what the not-nickname is, or I’ll just make something up.”  
  
“Why?” Bash asks, suspicious.  
  
Jared clicks his tongue, irritated. “Because you effectively kidnapped me, and I deserve a few explanations, even if you think they’re stupid.”  
  
Bash grimaces, giving Jared a cold look as he puts the pen he’s using back with the others before he starts to talk. “I’m going to front this with the fact that I don’t like you,” he says, in a tone that Jared recognizes but has never been subject to, “And that talking to you as if I don’t actively avoid you is already playing with my patience.”  
  
Jared widens his eyes, honestly a little taken aback, but tilts his head for Bash to continue.  
  
“Before I worked here, I was at the DA’s office,” Bash begins, leaning back in his chair. “You and I started about the same time, and for some reason you seemed to instantly decide that I wasn’t-”  
  
“Okay, stop,” Jared interrupts, unlacing his hands to hold one of them up. “Could you stop with the ‘you’s, because _I_ didn’t do anything.”  
  
Bash rolls his eyes a little before he seems to agree. “ _He_ basically started on my case for everything I did; little jokes here and there, acting like I was some kind of idiot whenever we got paired up by the DA’s office, and- and to this day, he pretends to forget my name and calls me _Richard_.”  
  
Jared stares for a moment, not connecting the dots for a few seconds, but when he does, the only thing keeping him from bursting out laughing is the fact that Bash is so insanely serious about DA Jared being the King of All Douchebags.  
  
“Ah, because of the whole dick thing,” Jared responds lightly, only about half to show he understands, and the other to see Bash’s disgusted grimace, helping him let off a little of the ire he feels towards this entire place. “So, basically, you’re saying that this other Jared is sort of a huge talentless asshole?”  
  
“That’s the worst part,” Bash exclaims, as if he’s actually thought it over. “He’s not talentless, he’s just a jackass. Everything is a fucking joke.”  
  
Jared can’t help but snicker a little, wondering if it’s narcissistic to admire yourself if they’re actually a different person. He turns his head so Bash won’t see the smirk, and catches himself looking at the painting again. The expression falls into something more pensive as he stares, because if they aren’t even genial acquaintances, then how did this he get the painting that Jared practically stole from his mom?  
  
“So, then, where did you get that?” Jared asks after a moment, pointing and figuring it can’t hurt to ask.  
  
Bash looks in the direction he’s gesturing with a suspicious look, regarding the painting as he shrugs, “It was a gift, why?”  
  
“From who?” Jared pushes, wondering if there’s maybe just the tiniest thread of the friendship behind that indignation. The thought that a universe exists where Peter and he actually, legitimately loathe each other is something that he’s having a hard time accepting, even more so than the whole dimensional portal thing.  
  
“Stanton, I think.” Bash raises an eyebrow, “It was in here on my second day, so I figured it was a welcome gift. Why?”  
  
“So you got this anonymously,” Jared fills in, considering something.  
  
Bash gives him an odd look, “Technically.”  
  
Jared narrows his eyes back, deciding- wait, that is _not_ the point here.  
  
“Whoa- Wait a fucking minute, why the hell was Infeld digging around in other dimensions?” Jared bursts out, angry at himself for not asking earlier. “I mean he’s pretty off the wall sometimes, but this has super villain written all over it.”  
  
“On the contrary, I believe it’s quite the opposite,” Infeld interjects from behind him, scaring him so badly he nearly upends the chair he’s got sitting on two legs.  
  
“Jesus Christ, would it have killed you to warn me?” He glares at Bash, “You had to have seen him standing there.”  
  
Bash just rolls his eyes down, unabashed.    
  
“What do you mean the opposite, wizard man?” Jared asks with a sigh as he turns around, tilting his head.  
  
Infeld nods in greeting, folding his hands in front of him, “I’m not sure if Peter’s managed to explain since you ran out of my office, but we did not expect this sort of outcome.”  
  
“No shit,” Jared interrupts petulantly.  
  
Infeld gives him a hard look in response, and Jared sighs, miming his mouth shut.  
  
“A few days ago, Peter confessed that the reason he became a lawyer is because of dreams he’s had since he was a child-”  
  
“So? A lot of people want to be lawyers; Law and Order makes it seem pretty cool,” Jared can’t resist muttering as he rolls his eyes. “Complete lie though, the paperwork to cool ratio is fucking terrible.”  
  
“Oh please, as if _any_ version of you does paperwork,” Bash scoffs, hunching down in his chair when Infeld glares at the both of them.  
  
“May I please finish before we start the bickering,” Infeld asks sarcastically, folding his hands behind his back.    
  
Jared makes an exaggerated show of biting his tongue and putting his hands up in defeat, before he crosses them across his chest, hoping he doesn’t come off as too defensive.  
  
“Dreams as in sleep,” Infeld explains, slightly exasperatedly. “Apparently since he was a child he’s had this inexplicable urge to become a lawyer, and was subject to various images of such a life in his sleep- though he claims not to remember them but vaguely.”  
  
The last part is said dubiously, and Jared tries not to smirk at the way Bash scoffs.  
  
“They _are_ ; the most I ever remember in the morning is the color of a tie or- well I remember this one with a dog pretty well, but it’s mostly the dog fighting with some Indian guy,” Bash mutters with a contemplative frown. “That’s it.”  
  
Jared resists the urge to ask about Pindar and turns pointedly, “So you remember the dog, but not me?”  
  
“Ah, but that is what I’m curious about,” Stanton steps in, shaking a finger. “I believe he is seeing through _your_ eyes, not this other Peter’s.”  
  
The entire room seems to pause, and Jared opens his mouth a moment before closing it again, confused.  
  
“Are you two familiar with the legend of the red string of fate?” Infeld asks brightly, going into full story mode.  
  
“Not really, sir,” Jared answers out of habit.  
  
“Well, it is the legend that an invisible red thread connects two people who are destined to be involved in each other's lives, and I believe-”  
  
“Oh no,” Jared groans, catching on. “This is worse than that time Peter accidentally quoted Alexander the Great.”  
  
“ _I believe_ ,” Stanton repeats pointedly, “That the reason you were the one who appeared before us when I attempted to hoist the perceived threat from Peter’s mind is _he’s_ not actually the one that is ailed by all of this.”  
  
Jared hums contemplatively after Stanton finishes, nodding, “Yeah, I don’t copy any of that.”  
  
“I’m saying we need to speak to the DA,” Infeld says with an exasperated eyeroll.  
  
“No,” Bash bursts out, surprising the both of them. “I refuse to work in any capacity with _him_ ,” punctuating the statement with a gesture towards Jared.    
  
Jared blinks at the utter disgust in Bash’s tone and swallows thickly, unable to bite back the sudden guilt, as if he was the one who’d done something wrong. He knows it’s just the same voice fucking him up, but he can still feel the twinge of shame behind his breastbone.  
  
“But I want to go home,” Jared says before he can help it, hoping it doesn’t sound as much like a whine as it feels. “You can’t keep me here because you have some beef with an ex-coworker.”  
  
“He does have a point, this is a much more serious matter than a mere grudge,” Stanton agrees, in that fatherly tone that has Bash eventually sighing through his nose in defeat.  
  
“I’m not calling him,” Bash mumbles weakly, glaring at his desk.  
  
“Perfect,” Stanton says cheerfully. “You two can head over there now, speaking in person is always better anyway.”  
  
“That’s the exact opposite of what I meant,” Bash mutters into the silence that settles uncomfortably after Stanton sweeps out of the office.  
  
They sit there a few moments, discomfort growing again as Bash ticks something off on the sheet in front of him and Jared stares blankly at the carpet.  
  
“Well, get going,” Stanton urges, popping his head back through the doorway.  
  
Bash rolls his eyes, standing with spread arms as if to make a scene of satisfying Stanton, and grabs a jacket off a hook as he passes Jared. He stops halfway out the door, looking back, “Aren’t you coming?”  
  
“Wouldn’t that be a little freaky?” Jared asks slowly. “Like, ‘Surprise, brought another you.’”  
  
“It took us half an hour to convince you that you were in another dimension, and you’re actually _in another dimension_ ,” Bash answers just as slowly, if a little more condescendingly. “The sooner he sees you, the sooner we can get this over with.”  
  
“Awesome,” Jared mutters, standing reluctantly. He follows Bash out of the office, ignoring the odd sidelong looks as they step towards the elevators. “So what do you drive? Prius, SmartCar, _Tesla-_ ”  
  
“Ford,” Bash interrupts flatly.  
  
“Oh,” Jared responds quietly, frowning. “Really?”  
  
“Why is that so surprising?” Bash asks, giving him an odd look as they enter the concrete car park. “What do I drive there, a sportscar?”  
  
Jared raises his eyebrows, grimacing, “Not exactly...”  
  
Bash narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything, leading them towards a frighteningly bland looking Ford Focus- that appears to have suicide doors?  
  
“What is this?” Jared asks before he can stop himself.  He stares at the doors and nearly jumps when it makes a high pitched beep.  
  
“A prefect,” Bash answers flatly. “Do you not have sedans where you’re from?” he asks sarcastically.    
  
Jared scowls as he gets in, rolling his eyes. “Actually, no; not like this, anyway.”  
  
Bash seems to pause at that, clearly not expecting Jared to agree. “Oh,” he says awkwardly, shoving the key into the ignition. “Well, that sucks, they’re pretty cool.”  
  
“Cause of the doors?” Jared asks, trying to buckle the seat belt without Bash noticing the fact he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s always hated the stupid attached to the door type.  
  
“The doors,” Bash repeats quietly, like he’s confused. “What does that mean?”  
  
“The suicide doors?” Jared answers with a sarcastic tone. “Kind of a weird thing to get on a Fo- _Prefect_ , isn’t it? I mean, you could’ve spent the-whoa,” he trails off as Bash pulls out into the street. “Dude, all these cars have suicide doors.”  
  
“Not all of them,” Bash says with a raised eyebrow, pointing towards a car that looks like the bastard child of a Landrover and a VW Beetle. “Suicide doors?”  
  
“Because they can- you can fall out easier?” Jared answers after a moment, trying unsuccessfully to explain. “I don’t know, they stopped using them before I was even born.”  
  
“Okay,” Bash agrees doubtfully, raising an eyebrow at the road.  
  
“Whatever, just drive,” Jared mutters, settling into the seat with a frown. He spends the next fifteen minutes trying not to stare at all the weird little differences; horizontal stoplights, absent bridges, a park on a corner that usually has a Taco Bell. Mercifully, the courthouse appears mostly the same, barring the Lady Justice statue out front, and he can feel some of the tension in his chest dissipate as he steps into a familiar hallway.  
  
Jared smiles in pleased surprise when a well-dressed woman greets him with a wink, and nearly stops before he catches sight of Bash’s infuriatingly flattering haircut and he remembers that now is probably not the time to hit on a woman who might be his boss. He scowls when Bash pushes past him as they’re heading towards the offices, and nearly gives into the urge to yell something about assault, but pauses at the sight of a pair of bailiffs already eyeing them suspiciously.  
  
He nearly runs into Bash when they abruptly stops in front of a closed door, and rolls his eyes at the way he actually takes what appears to be a bracing breath.  
  
Bash knocks lightly, and it’s a total mindfuck when Jared hears his own voice telling them to come in.  
  
“Oh,” Jared hears himself say, or not himself, this other person who is him. ( _Franklin_ , not because it matches, but because he has to call him something, right? Right.)  
  
The insanity of the situation is slowly going to his head, he realizes warily, and stops at the doorway, pausing before going in and empathizing with Bash’s reluctance. He bites his tongue as he hears papers being thrown with a patronizing sigh, and stalls at the door a little longer.  
  
“I would’ve prepared something fancy if I’d known you were coming,” Franklin says, and something taps against a desk. “But we’ll have to do with these stale Pringles and this lovely stack of potential clients for you to lose cases for.”  
  
“I don’t choose my clients based on their prosecutor, Franklin,” Bash says sharply.  
  
Oh good, apparently everyone’s already caught onto the name theme.  
  
“Well maybe you should, ‘cause obviously defending criminals against the likes of me means you’re just filling up the prisons,” Franklin responds lightly. “Then again, that technically makes you my meal ticket.”  
  
Jared can practically hear Bash’s jaw tightening, cracking like stone, and rolls his eyes to the top of the doorframe. Apparently, one missed football game means Peter grows up to be a total wet blanket and Jared into someone with zero boundaries; as if their worst qualities just blossomed into full on personalities.    
  
“So, why are you here then, come to see all the excitement you’re missing?” Franklin asks sarcastically.  
  
Jared hears a chair creak and decides to wait a second longer in the hall, leaning on the doorway. He wonders if Bash will rise to the bait or just ruin all the fun by pulling Jared into the room.  
  
He frowns; why this is suddenly fun?  
  
“Oh, definitely,” Bash mutters, surly, giving Jared an odd look as he stands in the doorway. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure the endless red tape has just gotten livelier.”  
  
There’s the soft noise of paper being stacked, and Franklin’s chair creeks again, “Oh right, the government excuse; how noble.”  
  
‘It wasn’t an excuse,” Bash insists haughtily.  
  
Franklin scoffs, “I’m sure working for a skeezy firm gives you all the freedom you need.”  
  
“Doesn’t have _you_ either,” Bash immediately retorts, though the word sounds odd coming out of his mouth, as if he didn’t mean to say them, or doesn’t really mean them.  
  
Franklin is silent for a moment. “Whatever. Either way, I don’t have a case with you, so _why are you here_? Unless you just needed someone around to knock you down a peg, then I’m all yours.”  
  
Jared almost feels sorry for him, though he doesn’t really know why, aside from perhaps commiseration. He’s suddenly having a lot of unsettling reactions that don’t fit with the earlier focused urgency to just get home.  
  
“Actually,” Bash disagrees, sighing as if it physically pains him. “I need a favor.”  
  
There’s a silence, and the chair creeks again. “So, your approach to asking me for a favor was to tell me I suck, seriously?”  
  
“I didn’t mean- yes. Yes it was,” Bash sighs deeply. He turns his head to glare at Jared, “Why the hell are you loitering in the hallway?”  
  
“Curious to see what would happen,” Jared answers without guilt, stepping in. He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs at Franklins completely baffled look, “Yeah, I don’t know either, dude.”  
  
He winces at the sudden wave of horrification, and actually puts a hand to his forehead. “Ow.”  
  
“What the fuck?” Franklin exclaims, hands in the air. “Have you been playing around with magic or cloning?”  
  
“Are those actually options?” Jared asks in return, looking towards Bash, who looks equally confused.  
  
“You know about magic?” Bash asks suspiciously.  
  
Franklin immediately starts looking shifty, tapping the edge of the desk with a pen, “No.”  
  
“Dude, you’re not even trying to lie,” Jared mutters, rolling his eyes and looking down at his hand in bemusement, which is suddenly feeling really twitchy. He pinches the side of his other hand, hard as he can, and looks up at Franklin.    
  
“Shit!” Franklin almost immediately jumps in surprise, turning to Jared in alarm as he flexes a hand and slumps down into his chair. “This is really bad,” he glares at Bash, jaw shifting. “What the hell were you thinking?”  
  
“It wasn’t me,” Bash immediately denies. “It was Stanton, he thought I was possessed or something.”  
  
“What the fuck would possess _you_ , the demon of ennui?” Franklin says meanly.  
  
“Well, apparently, I’ve been having dreams of another universe because you-” Bash stops, struggling with something. He takes a deep breath, holding out his hands, “When Stanton tried to exorcise me, or whatever, he appeared. Stanton said it had something to do with you, and a red string?”  
  
Franklin’s eyes widen a little before he looks down at something at his desk. “I didn’t- _fuck_.”  
  
“I don’t really understand what it means except that I got some sort of side effect dreams from you,” Bash continues, almost apologetically. “Does any of that make sense?”  
  
“Not really,” Franklin disagrees at first, but he starts to rub at his eyes, wincing, “Fine, _yes_ , I might dabble a little. A lot.” His mouth twists angrily, “That red string stuff is just a legend.”  
  
“Well, apparently not,” Jared disagrees with a wide gesture. “And right now I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be pissed, or jealous. It’s a very weird feeling.”  
  
Franklin narrows his eyes as he turns to Jared, which is both uncomfortable and oddly piercing. “In your universe you work at Infeld/Daniels with Peter and live with him in Silver Lake with Pindar and Carmen, right? You don’t talk to your dad unless you have to and your- your mom lives in various vacation homes around the country according to season, you want a cat, but Pindar would probably go into shock, you hate more of Peter’s friends though you pretend to, and Janie doesn-”  
  
“Alright,” Jared interrupts loudly, holding up a hand when he realizes that Franklin doesn’t look like he’s going to stop anytime soon. “How would you know that?”  
  
Franklin appears to chew on his cheek. “I dabble,” he repeats vaguely.  
  
An uncomfortable silence descends over the office, and Jared watches as Bash starts to tap the side of his leg in anxiousness. He almost reaches over to flick the hand on instinct, having broken Peter of that habit years ago, but manages to hold himself back at the last moment, curling his hand into a fist.  
  
“Why aren’t you more surprised about this?” Bash finally asks, glancing at Franklin with a suspicious look. “I can assume you didn’t expect this to happen.”  
  
Franklin’s eyes widen a moment before he winces a little, shrugging, “Shit happens, I guess?”  
  
“Not this,” Jared retorts before he can help it. “This is not a shit happens moment. A shit happens moment is when you accidentally rear-end a cop, or you inadvertently get your RA arrested for possession; magic is not anywhere on that list.”  
  
“Well no, not for you,” Franklin responds sneeringly. “You don’t even have magic in your- your universe.”  
  
“This is a huge accident, this is just- why am I so pissed off suddenly?” Jared pauses, frowning. “I was _sad_ like five minutes ago, and now I want to kill someone.” _Mostly myself_ , he doesn’t say.  
  
The sudden anger is curious; Jared’s had barely enough time to go from freaking out to worried that he’ll never get home; it’s way too early for the self-loathing to start.  
  
“I think the mood swings are emotional transference,” Bash answers, shrugging. “I don’t know anything about the- stuff, but he flinched when you pinched your hand, so you can probably feel...his...” Bash trails off, looking at Franklin, “Why were you sad?”  
  
“We need to get you back,” Franklin says after a second, pointing to Jared. He starts to dig in his laptop, and Jared realizes that he’s hiding his face, or at least trying too, attempting to mask the red crawling up from his neck.  
  
Jared’s grimaces, embarrassment on him is exactly as unflattering as he always assumed.  
  
Franklin throws a small leather pouch onto the table with a reluctant expression. “You’ll need that,” he explains, pushing it towards Bash with a hesitant hand. “Be careful with it, since it’s actually really old.”  
  
Bash gives him a weird look, “What is it?”  
  
“It’s a hex bag,” Franklin answers with a sarcastic tone.    
  
“Oh, obviously,” Bash responds, equally mocking.  
  
The sack is small, leather, and tied at the top with an actual draw string. It looks a bit like a coin purse in a renaissance era tv show, but Jared has an uneasy feeling that there isn’t anything like gold on the inside.  
  
“It’s what I use to see into the other universe,” Franklin mutters quickly, pushing the bag a little further across the desk.  
  
Jared blinks, looking down at the bag a little more carefully, “I’m sorry, I think I heard you wrong,” he pokes it a little, wary. “You’ve been watching me on purpose?”  
  
Franklin shrugs but doesn’t offer any further explanation.  
  
“And you’ve been doing that since you were a kid,” Bash says slowly. “Why would you- how would that even work? That’s not even close to _dabbling_.”  
  
Franklin glances at Jared, swallowing, “I had a lot of free time after my mom died.”  
  
“Oh,” Bash says uncomfortably, but unsurprised, gently picking up the hex bag. “That makes sense.”  
  
Jared, however, is openly gaping. “Died?” He asks, disbelieving.  
  
The word has the entire mood of the room turning somehow icier, with Bash eyeing him suspiciously and Franklin scoffing bitterly.  
  
“One of Leonard’s mistresses decided a promise wasn’t enough,” Franklin explains tersely, eyeing the way Bash is holding the bag, as if to distract himself. “She got off with manslaughter, however, the prosecutor was incompetent.”  
  
Jared takes a short breath, and can’t tell if the melancholy is his or Franklin’s.  
  
“I didn’t really know what would happen,” Franklin continues, quieter, “When I made that, but it turns out it just found a place where that didn’t happen and let me see a little bit of it.” He shoves what he’d taken out of the laptop, back in. “Of course, I had no idea it would affect anyone else, let alone over some crazy… _string_ , but that should at least give Infeld a point of origin on getting you back.”    
  
“You should come,” Bash proposes, surprising both Franklin and Jared. “Stanton might have questions,” he continues, cradling the hex bag in his hands as he motions with his head for Jared to leave with him. “We’ll meet you there.”  
  
“Of course,” Franklin responds, sarcasm returning in full force. “Since I wasn’t doing anything here.”  
  
~  
  
“It was a really big case,” Bash says as they wait at a stoplight. “Like, case of the decade type of deal.”  
  
“Oh?” Jared responds faintly. He has no idea how he should feel, because it was his mom, but it wasn’t _his_ mom.  
  
“I didn’t know it was actually him until a defense attorney had the fucking gall to bring it up in the middle of court,” Bash explains, tone angrier than Jared would have expected. “As if it had anything to do with the case.”  
  
“Trying to throw him off his game,” Jared sighs. “That’s pretty low.”  
  
“I mean, he’s an asshole, but no one deserves that kind of shit being thrown in their face,” Bash mutters, glaring at the road.  
  
A few blocks pass silently before Bash clears his throat, glancing over, “So uh, who are Carmen and Pindar?”  
  
Jared raises an eyebrow at the stressed emphasis on their names. “Roommates, sort of, why?”  
  
“Oh,” Bash answers, as if it just relieved him of some sort of heavy duty responsibility. It’s nearly the same tone Peter used when they found out was the neighbor kid’s pet rat and not part of an entire colony living under the house. Which is suspicious, to say the least.  
  
“Do you know either of them?” Jared asks, hoping that Carmen isn’t sitting in a jail cell right now, or Pindar in a padded one.  
  
“No,” Bash answers immediately, grimacing a little. “I mean, _no_ , I just thought- I don’t know, never mind.”  
  
“What?” Jared raises an eyebrow. “What else could you have thought, he even said we lived together- wait, oh.” Live together, partners, he sees where this is going. “Kids, really?”  
  
“I thought maybe dogs, actually,” Bash disagrees, obviously lying by the way his hand tightens on the wheel. “Dogs don’t like cats.”  
  
“Uh-huh, sure,” Jared says patronizingly. “I can’t even imagine- well okay, I can imagine, but I’m self-aware enough to know it’s never going to happen.”  
  
Bash looks over in something too fake to be actual alarm, mixed with barely hidden curiosity, “So you and the other- I guess, or someone else named Peter?”  
  
“Okay no- _keep your eyes on the road,_ ” Jared certainly doesn’t yelp, wincing as they nearly get sideswiped by seriously funky looking van. “Anyway; no, there isn’t any... relationship.” He ignores the way the words feel defensive, and hopes that it’s not as obvious as he thinks, shrugging stiffly as he resists the urge to clear his throat. “We’ve just been friends since we were kids, that’s all.” _Most of the time_ , he doesn’t say, but he’s used to holding that back.  
  
Bash looks oddly let down, as if he was hoping for some sort of gossip, so Jared pulls at a string on the side of his seat, letting out a sigh, “I shouldn’t say this, but-”  
  
“What?” Bash asks, glancing over.  
  
“That painting in your office wasn’t from Stanton,” Jared reveals, eying him sideways. He doesn’t want to completely screw over the relationship apparently built on ire and competition that these two have, but if Franklin gave Bash that painting out of his _dead_ mother’s collection, there’s probably something there. Especially taking into account the faint thread of perpetual yearning he hadn’t realized was there until he’d gotten out of range, realizing uncomfortably that it wasn’t just his own eagerness to get home.  
  
“What?” Bash responds with a suspicious look. “How would you even know that?”  
  
Jared taps the armrest, “Because I gave that painting to Peter; had to basically con my _mom_ into letting me have it from her collection.”  
  
Bash is silent for a beat, as if he can’t physically understand, “What-?” His mouth twists as he cuts himself off, staring at Jared in disbelief. “Why the hell would he give me a _gift_? For leaving?”  
  
Jared shrugs, “If he’s been watching us- me and Peter, I mean- he knows Peter loves that painting, and probably thought you would, too.”  
  
“I do,” Bash admits, though reluctant by the tone. “Are you sure?”  
  
“I guess, in theory, Infeld could have given it to you mysteriously as a welcome gift, but the odds of him throwing away the chance to tell a story about wrestling wolves in Siberia is probably comparatively unlikely,” Jared responds sarcastically. “Just trust me on this, okay?”  
~  
  
Jared realizes he should’ve waited to reveal that particular nugget of knowledge over the next four hours, maybe just as he’s leaving as a few mysterious parting words, when Infeld reveals it will take him at least that long to get the spell ready, and then insists that Franklin stay just in case he has any questions.  
  
So far he’s had none, the bastard.  
  
Jared gets up when his legs start cramping, sighing as his phone displays a measly 5% left to play Bejeweled, and starts to walk towards the door, wondering if he can steal some of the candy from the woman next door as some sort of retribution for the fact she stole his office. He darts towards the fire escape stairwell as he exits _his_ office, watching her coming around a corner, and carefully closes the door behind him as he sits on the cement steps.  
  
It’s good to know someone’s lazy with the fire escape alarms here, too.  
  
Jared’s just unwrapping one of the cheap candies when Franklin opens the door not even a few seconds later, and watches as he leans against the door jam, digging a pack of cigarettes out of a jacket pocket. He frowns, wondering if Franklin’s going to start something. “What?”  
  
“Don’t you think it’s odd that the only place the fire alarms don't work is next to the fire doors?” Franklin says, lighting one up. “Seems a little unsafe, I think.”  
  
“Maybe they know people smoke in here,” Jared answers flatly, eyeing the cigarette. “And don’t want a bunch of false alarms.”  
  
“Still,” Franklin continues, “Someone is going to get in trouble sooner or later.”  
  
“That sounds a little pointed,” Jared returns, narrowing an eye.  
  
“You said something,” Franklin accuses, finally getting to the point. “He’s been looking at me funny since I got here, and that’s lasted _hours_.”  
  
Jared shrugs easily, “Maybe he’s still just weirded out that magic is real, waiting for the bigger pin to drop. Probably he thinks you and Infeld are just getting ready to summon a dragon to sacrifice us to, or something.”  
  
Franklin raises an unamused brow at him, determined and not moving an inch. He takes a drag of his cigarette, eyeing Jared, before pointedly blowing the smoke directly in his face.  
  
That absolute dick, he probably knows Jared quit in college.  
  
"I may have said something about the painting," Jared admits in irritation, wafting the smoke away with his hand.  
  
"Painting," Franklin repeats flatly, raising an eyebrow. "What painting would-wait, _what,"_ his face goes almost chalk white, before quickly flushing with irritation a mere moment later.  
  
Jared holds up a placating hand, "He thinks you're a total dick, figured I'd try to-"  
  
"Try to make him like me? How about instead you get your life in order before you start ruining mine," Franklin says angrily, nearly snapping the cigarette in half. "That was not your secret to tell."  
  
"Why the fuck is it a secret anyway?" Jared snaps back, throwing a candy wrapper at his feet. "What would be so bad about being friends with him?"  
  
"Friends? I still have trouble with the fact that he's _real_! The odds of our lives having this many- and then he shows up at the same internship–" Franklin stops, making a fist at his side before he glares at Jared angrily. "I freaked out, okay, maybe treated him a little too much like we already knew each other, and he took it a little badly because apparently the Peter Bash of my universe is allergic to fun." He groans in something a little too close to misery, "And he's so fucking petty that all he'll hold onto is the fact I joke around a little too much because he's such a goddamn killjoy-"  
  
"This is quickly getting personal," Jared mutters, glancing down the steps.  
  
"But you know what," Franklin bursts out, hands on his hips, cigarette leaving ash on the floor. "I don't need to be friends with him; I don't _want_ to be, and I refuse to get stuck in limbo like you, fixed in this imitation of a relationship because you're too much of a pussy to make a move– at least I'm not fooling myself into thinking we're something other than what we fucking are," he finishes heatedly, jaw squared.  
  
"Do you feel better?" Jared asks dryly. "Because you talk _a lot_ , and I kind of zoned halfway through.”  
  
Franklin takes a deep breath, exhaling sharply as he shakes his head.  
  
"I'll put it in small words, so your tiny brain will understand," he starts in a harsh tone, completely serious and sounding disturbingly like Janie. "You are living some kind of crazy imitation of what most people would call _marriage_. Trying to sleep with everything that moves does not change the fact that you somehow manage to be hung up on a guy you live across the hall with, while at the same time ignoring that he's in the same fucking position, and has been for _at least_  as long as I've been been watching. You have no business giving anyone advice, least of all about Peter Bash."              
  
Jared takes a surprised breath, distractedly trying to rationalize that Franklin is probably just using him as some sort of outlet for an apparent obsession with soliloquy. He sneers, "You don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"I've been having dreams where you two dance around each other like lovesick fools since I was _twelve,_ " Franklin says, raising his hands in amazement. "I never thought I'd have a chance to say all this to your face, which I’ll admit is very freeing."  He pauses thoughtfully, "It's a lot like I always imagined it would be to shove Mulder and Scully into a tight space."  
  
Jared scowls and is somehow entirely unsurprised that he has to resist punching himself. "Me and Peter, we're not like that."  
  
"Bullshit," Franklin scoffs, "Initials inside 'fake' wedding bands are not something friends do." He waves a condescending hand. "And, it was _his_ idea."  
  
"Shut up!" Jared demands, unprepared to have what he recognizes as his own courtroom persona suddenly and effectively turned on him. "We aren't like that- both of us have had girlfriends, _serious_ girlfriends, which you're aware of, if you've been watching like the stalker you obviously are."  
  
Franklin laughs shortly, raising a sarcastic brow, "You seriously can't believe that's a real defense; last time you had a girlfriend he actually injured himself to get your attention."  
  
"That was an accident, he's whined about having an incomplete set since it happened," Jared scowls, hating himself for knowing exactly what Franklin's talking about and swallowing the derisive laugh in the back of his throat. "How the fuck did we get from your messed up life to mine?"  
  
"Deflection is my job," Franklin reveals dryly. He suddenly snaps his fingers, pointing, "Oh, _and_ I've always wanted to tell you that you depend waytoo much on him in the courtroom; one day, it's going to come back and bite you."  
  
Jared rolls his eyes. "Of course, that's when your little spell sack decides to take a break."  
  
Actually, that's probably a good thing, since mixtapes probably tie with wedding bands in levels of denying romanticism; if you're 14, anyway.  
  
Franklin narrows his eyes in confusion and obviously wants to ask more, but holds back for some reason with a grimace, "Fine, we'll just agree that our lives are equally...questionable, but–" he sighs, glancing in the direction of Stanton’s office with no little reluctance. "I'll try to be less of an ass to Peter."  
  
"My life isn't questionable," Jared argues weakly, after a moment. "You're the secret wizard."    
  
"Your denial is actually giving me a headache," Franklin responds flatly, rolling his eyes. "He fucking loves you more than air, you'll be lucky if he hasn't had a heart attack from panic by the time you get back, since I’ve noticed he’s kind of a pussy."  
  
Jared actually feels himself flushing in embarrassment at the blunt way Franklin delivers the sentence, all the wheedling arrogance put aside, as if Peter loving Jared is as obvious as the sky is blue. "You should stop talking so much, too," he says as he unwraps another candy. "It makes you seem like you have a social disorder."  
  
Franklin smirks at him, glancing over. He tips his head like he's telling a secret, "No one knows you're lying if you're always telling the truth."  
  
Jared blinks, "What?"  
  
"Exactly," Franklin agrees, leaning against the door with a wide grin. "Learned that in boarding school."  
  
"I got kicked out," Jared admits with a shrug.  
  
"Oh." Franklin’s expression twists into an odd frown. "Well, it's kind of hard to get kicked out when your dad sends you to Germany." He starts to take a drag before stopping, almost sputtering, “So you never smoked?” He asks a little awkwardly, as if Jared’s not going over those stupid “Cravings Never Go Away” taglines in his head.  
  
“I stopped in college,” Jared answers slowly. “Wouldn’t you-”  
  
“Oh, so you never learned how to do this,” Franklin interrupts brightly, taking a smoother drag of his cigarette before slowly blowing out what appears to be a lion.  
  
Jared raises his eyebrows, watching as the lion jumps around before it dissipates, “I’m not sure I could do more than rings, even if I smoked ‘til I was eighty.”  
  
“Bummer,” Franklin says with a smirk, this time creating a pair of dragons. “So you really have zero magic over there?”  
  
“As far as I know,” Jared mutters slowly, leaning back slightly when the dragons blow smoky imitations of fire at him.  
  
“So you never had that case with the surprise vigilante wizard?” Franklin asks, raising an eyebrow. “Kind of felt guilty for erasing Bash’s memory on that one.”  
  
“Viper?” Jared asks in surprise. “Erasing his memory?!”    
  
“He’s fine,” Franklin says with a dismissive hand. “Totally safe.” He stubs out the cigarette with his toe. “Yeah, turned out he could fly _and_ turn into a pit viper, very exciting.”  
  
Jared stares, “He jumped across a roof.”  
  
“Well, that’s boring,” Franklin says in disappointment, mouth twisting. “ _Oh_ , what about that case with those milfy witches who took the youth from a couple of strippers?”  
“Set up for insurance fraud,” Jared answers flatly. “Seriously?”  
  
“Seriously.” Franklin nods, “Luckily, Bash wasn’t involved in that one, it was pretty messy.”  
  
“Right,” Jared says slowly. “Really not endearing me to this place, at all.”  
  
“It’s so weird that your universe is apparently just as boring as I thought,” Franklin says as he opens to the door, ushering Jared out. “Man, there is so much I do with magic that it’s kind of hard to imagine not having it.”  
  
“That’s not exactly reassuring either,” Jared mutters, rolling his eyes.  
  
“How do you make eggs?” Franklin asks suddenly with an odd look. “Cause I have this spelled nonstick that makes them perfect every morning.”    
  
“I don’t really-”  
  
“Boys!” Stanton booms into the office, scaring half associates working and startling Jared so bad he nearly ducks into his office that doesn’t exist.  
  
“Are we good, Mr. Infeld?” Franklin asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
“Oh, call me Stanton, please,” Stanton says, motioning them towards the office. “And yes, please get in here before we’re forced to do something drastic.”  
  
Bash is standing awkwardly next to the giant copper bowl, looking up when they come up and stepping backwards.  
  
“Peter, step back,” Stanton practically snaps, which- what?  
  
“Sorry, sir,” Bash mutters, taking another step back and looking like a scolded child.  
  
“He’s been trying to stick his hand in the whole time,” Infeld mutters in explanation, rolling his eyes. “It’s like teaching potions at a primary school.”  
  
Franklin stops in front of Stanton's desk, looking down at the copper bowl with an assessing look, "You know, even though I was twelve when I made that hex bag, and you were already, like, twenty-four, I just sort of assumed most of it was the same minus- well-" He shrugs with a grimace, "I just thought it was probably the same."  
  
"That's weird," Jared mutters, glancing down with an identical raised brow. He looks up to see Franklin's narrow glare. "That the times don't match up," he amends quickly.  
  
"Actually, it's very common," Stanton interrupts, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him towards the middle of the room with a sharp gaze.  
  
"That's- okay," Jared agrees reluctantly. “Are you done with the... stuff? Am I going back?”  
  
“Indeed,” Stanton says with a worryingly wide grin. He turns around and picks up the bowl, whispering something that makes Franklin’s eyebrows go up, before setting it on the floor in front of Jared. “Worry not, even though I’ve never done this, it should be simple reversal, especially when Mr. Franklin’s hex bag hopefully pinpoints the universe of origin.”  
  
“There’s a lot of synonyms for ‘maybe’ in that sentence,” Jared mutters uncomfortably. “That’s not exactly awesome.”  
  
Stanton just shrugs apathetically before turning to Franklin and pointing him towards Bash, “I’m going to need you two to hold hands.”  
  
“What?” Franklin exclaims, skeptical. “That shouldn’t make a difference.”  
  
Bash just looks wary, eyes darting between Stanton and Franklin before giving Jared’s entire person a cautious look.  
  
“I’m hoping to send him back directly from whence he came, and not to Timbuktu,” Stanton explains smartly, although the way he winks at Jared reveals that the words are probably just a rather convincing lie.  
  
Which is just great, Jared is probably going to end up in somewhere foreign and unforgiving, which with his luck will be in Newfoundland during January, because Stanton can’t be sane in any universe.  
  
“Just do it,” Bash mutters, holding out a hand. “Stop being such a dick, I don’t have cooties.”  
  
“That you know of,” Franklin mutters sarcastically, but he grabs the hand regardless, lacing their fingers together and avoiding Bash’s surprised look at the intimacy.  
  
Stanton’s satisfaction is practically palpable.  
  
Jared gives the room at whole a dismayed look and shoves his hands in his pockets, wondering if he’s just supposed to stand here until something happens. He contemplates clicking his heels for an embarrassing moment before Stanton seems to conjure a packet of matches and a lighter from nowhere.    
  
“Here’s to hoping you arrive with all your limbs intact,” Stanton says brightly, dropping a lit match in the bowl and making an odd gesture with his hands.  
  
“What?” Jared croaks in horror, but he starts coughing soon after, unable to ask more and bending over.

He desperately tries to breathe, but his lungs refuse to move and he reaches for the edge of the desk to find nothing but empty space, nearly falling backwards- except, someone grabs his arm.  
  
The last thing he remembers is the sight of Peter’s shocked face as he passes out.  
  
~  
  
Jared does his best not to start coughing as he wakes up, the air that is now definitely entering his lungs tearing through his throat like sandpaper with every inhale.  
  
The second is that he’s lying on the couch in _his_ living room, Peter sitting on the floor next to him and watching what appears to be an episode of Bones that Jared has never seen, which is just awesome because it’s totally at the murderer reveal and now it’s definitely going to be ruined forever, even when he ignores the whole near death irony. He glances away and takes a moment to check that everything is really the same: Lady Justice across the room wearing a tie as a tube top, Sack Boy angrily stuck under the entertainment system, the crack on the side of the coffee table.  
  
There’s relief there he doesn’t even know how to handle, though he readily admits that he could’ve done without the scarring lungs, for which he blames Infeld completely for not being able to pass up the opportunity for a smart comment. He shifts slightly on the couch, wincing as Peter freezes up on the floor, the grip on the remote going from loose to white knuckled.  
  
“Hey, buddy,” Jared croaks, which seems to make it worse; Peter’s shoulders hunching, muscle drawing taut under a loose flannel shirt. He lifts a hand, which takes a ridiculous amount of effort, and lets it sort of curl around the front of Peter’s chest, a lazy, though really the best he can do right now, attempt at comfort.  
  
Peter makes something of a choked noise, grabbing his arm and holding on, remote and television forgotten as he squeezes Jared’s arm. “You just disappeared,” he says hoarsely. “I thought- I don’t know, it was like you- you were gone, literally out of thin air.”  
  
Jared pats Peter’s collarbone lightly, slightly frustrated with himself about how relieved he is that he can feel Peter breathing, that he actually, legitimately experienced some sort of rom-com movie magic mix up  and is back home shamelessly feeling up his best friend’s chest.  
  
“You thought Fight Club, didn’t you?” Jared asks, hand curling up around Peter’s neck, letting his fingers graze the side of his jaw before letting his arm go limp again.  
  
Peter tenses a little under the attention, or the words, more likely. “No,” he answers unconvincingly, thumb brushing along Jared’s wrist.  
  
“It’s okay,” Jared rasps, body subconsciously curling towards Peter as the burning slowly fades from his lungs, limbs starting to feel less like weights. “Everyone knows I’m the Tyler Durden.”  
  
Peter laughs like he’s relieved too, short and soft. “I hope the house isn’t _that_ bad.”  
  
“Pindar would die,” Jared mutters in agreement, lifting his free arm over Peter’s other shoulder so that he’s now giving him some sort of unbalanced, half hug and resisting the urge to bury his head in the back of Peter’s neck.  
  
The shoulders under his arms go lax and Peter leans back like he knows exactly what Jared was thinking. “Where were you?” He asks like it hurts, hand tightening over Jared’s wrist. “I would’ve gotten Thai,” he amends a moment later, halfheartedly.  
  
Jared frowns in confusion, wonder what that had- oh, right. “It’s not like it was on purpose,” he says, some of the memory of that place coloring his tone unfavorably. “You’re not going to believe me.”    
  
“I have believed so much shit from you,” Peter mutters, tilting back against the couch, head turning to look at Jared. “Why would you think I’d stop now?”  
  
Jared’s chest starts to hurt again, the words resonating somewhere behind his breastbone, and he turns his head into Peter’s shoulder to hide the choked laugh. “You have gone along with a lot of my shit,” he mumbles half-heartedly. “I wonder if that means you make more bad choices than me?”  
  
“Deflecting,” Peter sighs, tone somewhere between annoyed and fond.  
  
It’s so close to the conversation Jared was _just_ having, in another fucking universe, that he sort of gives up any sort of resistance, squeezing Peter so tight that he grunts out some muffled curse, pulling a little on Jared’s arms.  
  
“It was another universe,” Jared reveals reluctantly, turning his head. “There was another you and another me and another Infeld, and don’t even tell me magic isn’t real, because I know you saw me appear out of nowhere in the living room.”  
  
Peter doesn’t say anything for a tense moment, no doubt swallowing back a number of unflattering reflections on Jared’s sanity.  
  
“It was bad, dude,” Jared continues, quieter. “You hated me, and the other me literally couldn’t keep his mouth shut for more than a minute so I couldn’t even really blame him.” He scowls, “And he liked to meddle, even though the whole thing was his fault.”  
  
“Did they have a fight or something?” Peter finally says, leaning his head against Jared’s.  
  
It takes a moment for him to respond, Peter’s other hand drifting up one of his arms in a way that is both incredibly distracting and confusing. “No, they just didn’t like each other,” he coughs slightly, trying to relieve the way his throat is starting to tighten up. “Didn’t meet until they were out of law school and apparently clashed,” Jared explains, hand twitching against Peter’s collarbone. “The other you was sort of a humorless workaholic and the other me was basically a punk.”  
  
“Basically you,” Peter murmurs, smirk just visible.  
  
“No,” Jared scowls, “He was really mean, too, kind of like Janie- don’t tell anyone I said that.”  He shrugs as much as he can, “His life sucked a little, too, I guess. Even with the magical cookware.”  
  
The room is silent if just for their breathing for a moment after that, Peter still gently brushing along his forearm with one hand, while the other holds onto his other wrist tightly.  
  
“Well, don’t do it again,” Peter says eventually, shoulders tight.  
  
Jared scoffs, frowning and turning further into Peter’s shoulders, “Didn’t want to go to begin with, it was all because of-” he cuts himself off, slightly unwilling to admit anything about Infeld’s ridiculous red string analogy, despite the fact they’re basically curled together at this point. Denial has been his second best friend for a long time, and he’s not about to give that up because of some asshole in another world. “Because no version of me should be allowed to do magic,” he finishes instead, sighing heavily.  
  
Peter murmurs his agreement a moment later, in a way that slightly makes Jared want to slap him.  
  
He reluctantly finds himself thinking about what Franklin was arguing, unable to resist drawing the conclusion that he might’ve been right about Peter and him, that they’ve just been circling each other, within reach but just too cowardly to actually touch.  
  
Metaphorically, anyway, since there is an alarming amount of touching going on now, and he really hopes burning whatever was in that sack nullified Franklin’s ability to watch his life like a goddamn television show.  
  
It’s just- it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it, but Peter almost got married, for fucks sake, it’s just not realistic.     
  
He sighs tiredly, closing his eyes and finally giving into the urge to lean completely into Peter, nose buried behind an ear as he breathes, startling slightly when Peter’s fingers tangle into his hair.  
  
“I freaked out so bad that Infeld sent me home,” Peter confesses quietly, tipping his head towards Jared’s, fingers clenching in his hair. “I’m pretty sure Karp thinks I should be checked into a mental ward.”  
  
Jared can’t help smiling, laughing slightly. “He wishes.”  
  
Peter makes a small noise of assent. The way he sighs afterwards, though, makes Jared wary.  
  
“Just, I don’t think-” Peter laughs harshly, removing the hand from Jared’s wrist to cover his own face and face towards the ceiling, “This is a lot harder that I thought it would be.”  
  
Jared pulls back a little, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, awkward as Peter seems to have a fight with himself.  
  
“No, wait,” Peter says, grabbing Jared’s shoulder and keeping him from getting any further. “I had this whole thing, and- just let me get it together, okay?”  
  
“Alright,” Jared agrees, slightly reluctant. He doesn’t exactly return to the same position, instead choosing to rest his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “A whole thing for what?”  
  
“Just- okay, so,” Peter sighs again, obviously still angry at himself for some reason. “Do you remember- of course you remember, what I am even talking about?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Jared agrees dryly, closing his eyes. He might just let Peter talk himself out at this point, honestly.  
  
“We agreed that it wouldn’t work out,” Peter says with such a sudden, forceful energy that it startles Jared. “But sometimes-” he chokes a little, laughing bitterly, “A lot of times, actually, I wish we’d at least tried.”  
  
Jared knows instantly what he’s talking about, and the odd angle his body is already at begins to ache with the way his spine tries to straighten.  
  
“I know,” Peter says weakly, not even trying to hold Jared back from moving away this time, instead covering his mouth like he wishes it’ll take back what he said, looking at the ground and firmly away from Jared. “I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly, “But when you fucking disappeared out of thin air like that- I realized you should know, even if it fucks everything up, that you should know if- if you ever came back.”    
  
It takes a moment for Jared to remember how to breathe, the sensation oddly echoing his earlier experience, although somehow this hurts worse, as if something is strangling him rather than just broken. He moves back only to let himself catch up with his thoughts, starting to get angry at himself, angry at Franklin for knowing, angry that Peter thinks it’s something to apologize over.  
  
Just, so angry.  
  
He takes a deep breath and stops Peter when the he starts to try and get up, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to stay down, though he’s under no illusion it’s actually by anything physical.  
  
“The other me could see us,” Jared reveals quietly. “Do you want to know what he said?” he asks, grabbing Peter’s chin and forcing him to look over. “He said that we’ve been dancing around each other like lovesick fools, which is verbatim, by the way, and have been for as long as he’s been watching.”  
  
Peter gets a cagey look on his face, mouth twisting, “Which would be?”  
  
“Twelve years,” Jared says with a grimace. “Give or take.”  
  
“Shit,” Peter mutters, slumping further down the edge of the couch. All the regret seems to have dissipated though, as he leans into the hand that Jared takes the liberty to run through his hair, ungelled for once.  
  
“Whatever,” Jared mutters, causing Peter to give him an odd look. “He basically made the other you hate him on accident, and refuses to try to be friends even though he like- gives secret presents,’ he explains. “The dude is a total headcase.”  
  
Peter gives him a look that means he thinks _Jared’s_ the headcase.  
  
“Shut up,” Jared responds petulantly.  
  
“You know,” Peter starts, twisting around so that he’s looking straight at Jared, tilting his head.  
  
“No,” Jared interrupts meanly, shoving his head away.  
  
Peter grabs his wrist again, holding on, “You actually got to talk to yourself, and you thought he was crazy.”  
  
“A: wasn’t even close to being me,” Jared scoffs, trying to hold back the sudden grin when Peter runs a finger down the center of his palm. “And B: only a little crazy.” He smirks, raising a brow and looking Peter in the eye, “You’re believing this a lot quicker than I thought you would.”  
  
Peter shrugs. “Well, unless I’m crazy too, I figure it’s safe to believe.” Jared twitches slightly as Peter taps his fingers, smirking up at him,  “Should probably come up with something else to tell everyone though; Carmen might be under the suspicion that it was some sort of elaborate trick to get out of work.”  
  
“Damn,” Jared mutters sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Now we’ll never be able to use the mysterious disappearance excuse.”  
  
He glances back in confusion when Peter stops oddly, something suspicious gleaning in his eye the only warning before he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against Jare++d’s with only slight hesitance.  
  
He catches the back of Peter’s head as he pulls away, leaning in for something more heated, eager despite the earlier anxiety.  “I can’t believe anyone thinks you have game,” he says afterwards, leaning back to catch his breath, smirking.  
  
“My game would be wasted on you, anyway,” Peter defends, letting himself be pulled onto the couch when Jared tugs on his shirt, one of his legs going between Jared’s, a hand trailing up his neck.    
  
Jared gives into the urge and arches into the touch, smiling as Peter moves in for another kiss, groaning when the hand on his neck moves down his chest.  
  
He hears an odd noise but ignores it, distracted with getting a hand under Peter’s shirt, groping muscle he’s long ignored the urge to touch.  
  
“Alright this is cute,” Carmen says pointedly from somewhere to his left, and he winces in pain as Peter’s elbow twitches in surprise right into his kidneys.  
  
He glances over and gives her an unconcerned smirk, an expression that falters slightly when he notices the phone still held in her hand, angle just barely revealing a lit up camera screen.  
  
“You’re not supposed to be back for hours,” Peter sighs petulantly, leaning up from Jared and frowning at her. “I think- what time is it?” He asks, looking down at Jared.  
  
Jared shrugs, twisting back his head to look at the clock on the cable box, “6? Or wait- 9?”  
  
“Nine,” Carmen confirms, making a shooing motion. “Get up.” She orders, raising an eyebrow with no room for argument. “I’m glad you guys had an epiphany or whatever, but I have a date with Solid Snake and I refuse to be console-blocked.”  
  
“Dude,” Jared frowns, straightening out his shirt when Peter rolls off of him with a pout. “If you still haven’t finished it at this point, you can wait a few-” he glances contemplatively at Peter, “Hours.”  
  
“No,” Carmen disagrees flatly, crossing her arms. “This is my PS3 night, you can fool around somewhere else.”  
  
“I just had a serious and scarring experience, I need _comfort_ ,” Jared disagrees, crossing his arms in return and refusing to get up.  
  
“Prove it,” Carmen tilts her head, widening her eyes purposefully. “Otherwise, you can move the fuck over.”  
  
“You two can’t be-” Peter starts mutter, only to be interrupted when Pindar peaks over the couch with a curious frown. “-Serious.” He finishes, looking at the ceiling.  
  
“Are we playing the new Call of Duty?” Pindar asks eagerly, looking hopeful, though his eyes narrow quickly as they catch Jared’s disheveled shirt. He glances quickly between Peter and Jared, before something appears to click. “Were you making out on the couch?” He exclaims, high pitched. “We sit on this! This is _public property_.”  
  
“I’m guessing this wouldn’t be an issue in- you know,” Peter sighs, ignoring Pindar and trying to straighten his hair.  
  
“Probably not,” Jared agrees, exasperated. “Other you probably didn’t have any friends, anyway.”  
  
The statement earns him a variety of curious looks, with Peter’s the only one that looks properly disbelieving.  
  
“You know what, Pindar?” Carmen declares loudly, interrupting them. “I think we _were_ going to play Call of Duty, hm?”  
  
“What? No,” Jared immediately disagrees, but makes the mistake of glancing at Pindar’s hurt expression. “Or- well,” he sighs, making eye contact with Peter, shrugging in apology.  
  
“ _Alright_ ,” Peter concedes reluctantly, rolling his eyes with an expression that Jared’s more familiar with from the other way around.  “Fine, yes, we haven’t played it that much, anyway.”  
  
Jared idly wonders if he should storm off in a huff and glare at himself in the mirror to complete the pattern; really get into the mind of a someone who’s been cockblocked from hitting that. Although, since he’s planning on just surreptitiously following Peter into his room tonight, it’s not really a similar situation to, say, the handsy blonde from Tequila Tuesday last week that Peter was with when Jared broke the shot machine.  
  
‘Broke’ being a loose term.  
  
“How was stalker-girl’s party?” Peter asks Pindar as he shoves Jared’s feet of the couch, sitting in the empty space.  
  
Peter sits as close as he usually does, which, since Jared’s grudgingly started analyzing everything, he acknowledges is definitely inside the standard friendzone. If it wasn’t for the principle of the thing, and the fact the guy technically didn’t exist, he’d probably formally apologize to Franklin at this point.  
  
“Horrifying,” Pindar reveals eagerly. “I couldn’t even go in her kitchen, who knows what disgusting bacteria live on those surfaces.”  
  
“It wasn’t that bad,” Carmen sighs long-sufferingly, throwing Jared a controller and rolling her eyes.  “She just had a few dirty dishes on the counter.”  
  
Pindar sits delicately in his usual chair, looking onscreen as the PS3 starts up, but soon starts glancing at Peter and Jared, eyes darting away every time Jared tries to catch him.  
  
“Dude, what?” Jared asks finally, hunching into the couch and almost dreading the worst.  
  
Pindar glances over again, more critical, “You guys haven’t been making out on the couch the entire time, have you?”  
  
Jared sighs, hanging his head and letting his shoulders relax.  
  
“You never leave the house, man,” Peter laughs, though his arm is still tense against Jared’s. “How would we have hidden it?”  
  
“I don’t _know_ ,” Pindar answers, tone exaggerating the disbelief. “So, there haven’t been any significant ... dates?”  
  
“Maybe,” Jared answers archly. “Would you have gotten presents?”  
  
“You guys don’t care though, right?” Peter asks, overstepping his question, knuckles a little white clutching onto the controller. “I mean, we usually just date girls, so it’s not like... known...” he trails off, looking at the television. Jared pats his arm, resisting the urge to sigh in exasperation.  
  
Not that there isn’t some worry, but come on, this is Carmen and Pindy.  
  
“Is that a serious question?” Carmen responds sarcastically. “No one cares if you guys get it on; personally, I thought you guys were married when I hired you, and I’m probably not the only one.” She pauses, tilting her head, “Okay, maybe not _married_ , but definitely somewhere on the relationship spectrum.”  
  
“I don’t know if it counts as hiring if you never paid us,” Jared says sideways, attempting to change the subject as he clicks his profile onscreen.  
  
“Oh, are we going there, now?” Carmen says, leaning in threateningly.  
  
“No,” Peter mutters, rolling his eyes, with a slight grin at the edge of his lips. “Just snipe him a couple times-”  
  
“Hey,” Jared exclaims, elbowing Peter in the side. “Don’t tell her that!’  
  
“Well, I would, if Pindy didn’t steal the sniper rifle every time,” Carmen says meanly, glancing pointedly over their heads.  
  
“That is a lie, it’s all fair if I get there first,” Pindar defends immediately, curling into his seat. “You’re just jealous of my skills.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Jared coughs into his hand, smiling when Peter absentmindedly pats him on the back.  

**Author's Note:**

> So I have a bunch of crazy ideas regarding actual alternate universe Peter and Jared, so be prepared for that, maybe?


End file.
